Chapter 35
Sandy stared at her phone.
Her view was of a mountain called ‘the Lion and the Lamb’.
They’d been told by one of the staff at Dow Bank House that the mountain was given its name because if you look up at the peak from a certain angle, it looks like a small lamb sitting meekly in front of a fierce, huge lion.
She took the barman’s word for it. She wasn’t about to go and test the statement.
She believed him. From this angle, it looked like a small hill.
It still amused her, after years of living in the US, how her native Brits still thought they were Great with a capital G.
She’d driven up bigger hills in the Smoky Mountains.
It was consummately private, unlike the hotel, and the grounds were more extensive.
There was a lake and island in the middle, with a funny-looking bandstand-type structure on it, added by the Victorians.
It was barely five miles away from Heron Hall, and part of her wished she could sneak Lee in for the evening.
She was bored. But his threats to her were still fresh in her mind and she hadn’t yet decided what to do about him.
If Hampton-Dent got wind of potential blackmail, things wouldn’t end well for Lee Lovett.
Her whole career had been shaped by the belief that the early bird catches the worm.
It had been a saying her mother used. It meant coming first. There was no other option.
Staying ahead of the game was as much about science as it was about wit.
Sandy liked to think she had both. Which was why she’d called the detective and left a message.
She’d called just after five o’clock, thinking the female copper would be enjoying her privacy with her man.
Perhaps she had a family, and they were swimming in some lake to cool off, or at a big party, laughing and being normal, like she imagined people doing.
But no, the detective turned out to be a workaholic and had called her back.
She let the phone ring five times, then answered.
‘Sandy?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Detective Porter.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘I never forget a voice.’
‘Right. Are you settled in? I know the estate; it’s beautiful. You called me.’
The detective sounded breathless and Sandy recalled her keen eyes and terrier-like stare.
‘It is and I am. It’s peaceful here, just what we all need after what happened.’
‘Exactly. Take time to look after each other.’
Sandy didn’t know if the detective was genuine. DI Porter was hard to read.
The copper sounded upbeat, and she reminded Sandy of one of those annoyingly happy people who breeze through life with a smile.
Then she checked herself and realised that the detective had seen death too.
But the detective’s motives couldn’t be further from the science.
The police were on the right side of justice, and they sought the truth.
Science, Sandy reflected glumly, stopped doing that years ago.
What was the saying? Scientific studies find that 99 per cent of scientists agree with whoever provides their funding?
She smirked to herself. But it wasn’t funny. Plenty of old colleagues had lost their livelihoods, reputations and futures for sticking to the truth, which was why she’d chosen not to. Truth was relative.
‘I was keen to stay in touch regarding what happened,’ Sandy said, aware she sounded insincere. But if morality – or rather the lack of it – bothered her she’d be in a different job.
Jamie had once been a similar beast, until Hank got handy with his sister, then suddenly he’d discovered a moral backbone.
‘The company is keen to resolve the matter for damage limitation,’ she told DI Porter.
‘Really? You called me for that?’
Sandy looked across the estate from the grand hall windows. Tilda said they must avoid attention.
The detective was a Joan of Arc type, she could tell. Which was exactly why they should be on a jet out of Manchester heading for New York and not still in the English countryside waiting for the police to work out what Angelina Robbins was up to.
But she was feeling rebellious over the commands Tilda had given them. They weren’t to leave the grounds, nor should they explore the beautiful surroundings they found themselves imprisoned in. And they couldn’t call anybody. Rule breaking felt deliciously awful to Sandy.
‘I hoped you were calling with extra information,’ DI Porter said. ‘But I’m glad you called, as I wanted to talk to you about YouthBlast,’ the detective said.
Sandy’s stomach tightened and she was impressed with DI Porter’s progress.
She peered across the gardens at the bodyguards who followed Hank wherever he went. The detective was closer than anyone could imagine.
‘In particular a compound I’ve been told is in it but shouldn’t be.’
‘Really?’ Sandy instantly regretted calling.
It was too soon. Her aim was to find out more about Jamie and Angie.
Some news on their postmortems perhaps. A reassurance that Jamie tripped and fell over the banister, even though she knew that wasn’t true.
Or how much they knew about what his sister was up to.
‘It’s called Neurohydroxy-14.’
Sandy didn’t answer straight away. But she did wonder how on earth a small-town Cumbrian detective had figured out they used the compound in their laboratory which was five and a half thousand miles away in San Diego.
She stayed on the phone out of fascination with the woman who was in charge of seeking the truth.
How much she discovered was up to Hank Hampton, and Sandy’s money was on the Texan.
‘I’m asking your professional opinion as a scientist, Sandy. I just want to learn a little more about it.’
‘Who told you it was in YouthBlast? That’s a lie.’
‘Is it? Oh, well I stand corrected. I’m all ears. Perhaps you could enlighten me on which active compound is in it, if it isn’t Neurohydroxy-14.’
Sandy couldn’t think of anything to tell her.
‘I can’t find any information on the compound online. Isn’t that unusual?’
‘Not for something that doesn’t exist,’ Sandy said, feeling clever.
‘How do you know it doesn’t exist?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Well, you seem very sure. I thought science was about gathering data and making observations about something that we don’t understand. If you have never heard of Neurohydroxy-14 then how could you possibly say it doesn’t exist?’
Sandy was trapped.
‘On the YouthBlast website it lists it in an appendix.’
‘I have heard of it.’ Sandy backtracked.
‘Oh, so can you tell me what it is?’
‘From memory, I think it’s a hormone combined with a few other elements to make a diuretic-like energy boost.’ Sandy walked towards the garden making sure nobody could hear her. Her heart raced.
‘So, why isn’t it banned?’
‘Why should it be banned?’
‘An article from 1989 in the Journal of Modern Science called it a bioweapon and stated that it should never be used for human consumption.’
‘Right. Well, you have done your homework. But the ingredient listed on the website must be a derivative.’
‘Did Jamie know how dangerous it is?’
‘We didn’t discuss it.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you aware that it is considered a bioweapon?’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Sandy said. The space under her ribs hurt. She needed a cigarette and an alcoholic drink. She was on private property now, and she was safe, but she didn’t feel it.
‘Why do you say that? I thought scientists considered evidence. You’re dismissing claims without examining them first.’
Sandy wanted desperately to hang up. This woman was incorrigible.
‘I mean I don’t deal with biohazards, so I can’t help you with that. Like I said, I’ve heard of it because I know its elements are made up of testosterone, glutamate, lactic acid and a thiazide diuretic.’
‘That’s quite specific.’
‘You’re the one who asked a scientific question. I’m being specific.’
‘Thank you. Can you repeat those so I can write them down?’
Sandy did as asked.
Detective Porter thanked her again and apologised for disturbing her. ‘Try to get some rest. Do you have the same security there?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The big guys, the close protection blokes who look like heavyweights?’
Kelly Porter chuckled but Sandy sensed something loaded in the question. She puffed out her chest towards the Lion and the Lamb, as if they might help her. But she felt hunted right now, and very alone, like the lamb, not brave and strong, like the lion.
Jamie had accused her of lying to him about Neurohydroxy-14.
She’d told him they changed the formula to make it safe.
He hadn’t believed her. Just like Kelly Porter didn’t. But who was the biggest liar? The scientist, or the profiteer?
‘I have no idea,’ she said, and the detective said goodbye and hung up.
Images flooded her brain. Pictures of white rats killing one another.
Blood against their white fur covering the floor of the cage.
One rat started it, then the others joined in.
She imagined them now with tin hats on, carrying weapons, lining up in military formation.
Trained killers. Chemical killers. They’d chewed, scratched and gauged each other until they were all dead.
The compound would change the face of modern warfare.
But that was never their original intention.
In the doses they’d used, Neurohydroxy-14 should be a superpower without being a lethal superweapon. It created a euphoric feeling of invincibility and strength. The rage must be activated separately, and they thought they’d perfected it.
But as she’d witnessed this week, perhaps they’d got it terribly wrong.
Paul was showing signs of irritability and stress like the rats had in week five.
That’s when it had all gone wrong. It’s why they’d chosen the Lake District. Now, they had to wait it out, here, together, until the effects of the hormone compound had worn off inside Paul’s blood, so they could see if he remembered what had happened in Jamie’s room before he died.